Issue 3

Early Spring 2026Claire YouLauren YouAbigail AnIssue 3AortaLiterary Magazine

Aorta Literary Magazine Issue 3What does it mean to be human?A bright note to the New Year, Aorta Literary Magazine explores this questions throughIssue 3. Established in August 2025, our magazine has gathered stories and thoughts ofhundreds of people. Since its inception, Aorta has featured a total of over 60 impressivewriters and their stories. Reaching contributors from all over the world with different storiesand a different voice, the editors have been incredibly touched by this process. We hope tosuccessfully continue our journey of sharing stories by people, by humans, and bycommunities. Reading these countless submissions, we are both honored and alwayslearning a new lens of humanity from them. Huge thanks to Lauren You (co-editor) andAbigail An (Editor) as well as the literary magazine community that gave so much supportto Aorta Literary Magazine.EDITOR’SNOTE

1.3.5 - 6.4.7.2.LEFCOTHEA MARIAGOLGAKIJOSHUA WALKERIVYFARNSWORTHJONATHANCHIBUIKEUKAHGARY WILLIAM RAMSEYFAVOUROSONDUCONTENTS8. 9-10.BERYLOWINO CLARE IRIARTEFALLING WIDE My Sweet AngelinaRYANAKERS14.VALERIENGUYEN15-18.TANITOLUWAADEFISANheartbeat in apaper boat Evening BreezeMy Japanese Maple Mango SeasonShe Has a Pact Strawberry Wine and N95sFlower of the GodsGrowing Up inthe 80sWords BroughtBy The Wind11-13.MEGAN WILDHOODHow To Be A HumanIn Your Home19-21.

22.25. 26.28-29.23-24.FATIMASHEHRINRUCHIACHARYAKAITLINNEALOLIVIAGASHCONTENTS30 - 31.Expectation is aDictator StillSweet Potato The Price of HumanitySometimes it feltlike my father washeld together byscarsMy Dogs Were Shotand I Didn't CareMasthead32.Thank You33.CLAIRE WEINERJOHN MAGSALIN

FALLING WIDEHad time been generous,it might have taken him backto that blemished day—when the intention was stilltrue,suitable for poetic treatment.When he,unbound from the vices ofconventions,lashed out, maiming friendand foe alike—a scene not of triumph, butdisgrace.A loathsome business,to stubbornly defend theverse,dishonourable though itslines might beinside an already brokenArthurian circle.LEFCOTHEA MARIAGOLGAKIAorta Literary Magazine 01About the author: Lefcothea Maria, 48, comes from Greece and is a publishedauthor, scriptwriter, and playwright. Shehas contributed to four internationalpoetry collections with ScarsPublications, The Poet, CandlelitChronicles and Adelaide LiteraryMagazine. Her work—including poems,flash fiction, and essays—has appeared innumerous journals such as BalestraMagazine, Uppagus, Litbreak Magazine, Quail Bell Magazine, Brazen Head, TheDaphne Review, The Stray Branch andThe Cannon's Mouth.

mysweetangelinaIt's inevitable for us to meet againin the middle of our roads never to part,when parting is the bitterest dream;love that grew teeth is dying in vainwhile its death is not the same as living.I live in you but I die in your body,as your eyes wear my grave clothes,the tulip to a tree, the seed to the fruit.Can the wind blow without some dustwhirling in the air, filled with piecesof sticks, thistles and logs of wood,while life’s death is the winged moon,enamoured of the debilitation of time?When we whack the wind into fragments,we gather them in baskets of our dreams.There's a river, there's a mountain,there are the ever-flourishing meadows,forests brimming with a sea of flowers,both grow side by side, breathing air,breaking the same ground, the same hour,a life loaned to light scrolled in sunlightin which every dream has a divine dottingthat lulls its people towards death’s keep.Sweet Angelina, oh Sweet Angelina,my love dwells on nothing else,but on rivers of glory and gales of fun,the nucleus of life, the seed of death,the vortex of dying with the breath of life.I have masked turbulence with war and peace,when men show strength through wisdom,not the vagaries of lavish displays of power,that embodies the nutrients of naked beauty,that in eternal moments of our existence,there’s a Haven of misery in our partingwhere we meet in confusion’s conclavewith the wind of war blowing through the mire.How gorgeous it is to wear this dream as clothing,that makes us go through the streets of deathand re-emerge as kings and queens of life,tested through their doleful dust of dying,knowing that this is no longer death’s dream.JONATHAN CHIBUIKEUKAHAorta Literary Magazine 02About the author: Jonathan Ukah writespoetry from London and featured inmany literary magazines andanthologies. He has received mayawards and pushcart nominations.

HEARTBEAT INAPAPERBOATheartbeat in a paper boati folded a paper boat todayand it caught the sunlight like asecreti did not tell anyonenot even the windmy hands tremblednot from fear but from knowingthe river does not careif the boat sinks or sailsi whispered to it anywaystories about stars i have nevertouchedabout people i have never metand it floated, tremblingbut alivesomewhere downstreama fish jumpedor maybe it was my own heartbreaking,laughing,learning to be humanJOSHUA WALKERAorta Literary Magazine 03About the author: Joshua Walker is apoet from Oklahoma City, Oklahoma, age41. He has been published in journalsincluding Potomac Review, SouthernFlorida Poetry Journal, and SolarpunkMagazine, and has received a BridportPrize Bursary. His work often explores thehuman experience through vivid imageryand emotional intensity.

HEARTBEAT INAPAPERBOATThe evening breeze stirs gently on this warm August night,a soothing companion to my solitude,carrying with it whispers of distant memories—fragments of a heart once ignited with unquenchable desire for her.I recall the days when every note of music resonated with profounddepth,when the world sparkled with an intense vibrancy,and joy surged through my veins like a rushing river,all because of her embrace,an essential part of my very existence.Now, the breeze tenderly whispers her name,summoning her image amidst the soft twilight glow,rekindling the flickering flames of love and yearning,two souls interwoven in a tapestry of dreams—comprehending and cherishing one another with fervor.As the sun retreats below the horizon,it casts resplendent beams upon the tranquil water,each ray captivating my senses,while the breeze sighs softly through the air,cradling me in quiet introspection,layering my thoughts with a bittersweet nostalgia, thick and warm.With each gentle whisper of her name,the breeze carries it into the deepening dusk,echoing the quiet farewell of her presence in my life.This tender zephyr intertwines with my memories,amplifying recollections like delicate threads,serving as a poignant reminder of the moments we once treasured.Memories, intricately interwoven with love and longing,remain eternally etched in my heart,resurfacing with each sunrise and sunset,a delicate dance of giving and receiving,defying the relentless passage of time,vibrantly alive in the present,as the evening breeze envelops my soul in its gentle embrace.GARY WILLIAM RAMSEYAorta Literary Magazine 04

MYJAPAENESE MAPLEI love writing that breathes and lives. It reaches out from the pageand holds onto me, grasping my throat and taking my rib to createa person who is better than I am. Rejuvenated by something thattakes me up, as if sipped through a straw, I drown in the belly ofartistry, but this drowning is good, and I am free.It was a lovely little house, the Avery Cottage, surrounded by acres ofwood and wildflowers, so picturesque it felt as if a crayon-craftedlandscape had burst into fruition, inhaled for the sole purpose ofexhalation by God in all His glory. Porch swings hung, haphazardand vacant, a nostalgic vision tinged with nature’s golds and greens.An impressive tree stood out front, a Japanese maple, richly purpleand so overgrown it formed a sort of dome, its leaves gingerlybrushing the ground. A large white car pulled into the driveway ofthe house and the doors opened, revealing four figures: a mother, afather, and two young children, the older of the two being a girl ofaround 8 or 9. The mother and children started walking up thegravel drive to the front door in a way that indicated they had donethis before, more than once. The father stayed in the car for a bitlonger before driving off, and the girl appeared to notice this as shestopped in her tracks and turned around, facing back toward him.He looked like he was praying, his head tilted, his eyes closed, andhis hands clasped. The girl quickly realized that her father was notpraying but crying. Her face dropped, and she swiftly turned tocontinue walking. The girl knew this house was her mother’s, but hermother only stayed there sometimes, and when she did, it wasunclear whether she was staying there alone. The girl was also notsure why her mother would need a second house at all when theyalready had another one so nearby. But such a beautiful house,cozily draped in ivy and wisteria! And such a beautiful day! Just lookat the Japanese maple!Looking closely, an observer might have seen that this tree directlyin front of the house was sort of hollowed out, and there was abreak in the branches and leaves that a very small person, a child,could slide through. A young girl could, and did, work her waythrough the brush to sit inside of the tree quite often, settling intothe curvature of the trunk.IVY FARNSWORTHAorta Literary Magazine 05

MYJAPAENESE MAPLEThe inside of this particular tree was holy ground. No one yelled orfought or cursed or threw things, and there was a sought-aftersensation of complete and blissful quiet. The girl would sometimesleave the Avery Cottage with a book or her favorite journal and penin hand just to sit alone amongst the foliage. She would scribble herthoughts down, shaping and molding her simple, childish words.They flew and spun, these words, swirling in various colors, circlingaround her small frame. The front of the journal read “The Book ofIvy Farnsworth”, and this title, although poorly written, with letters fartoo large for the space allotted, was legible enough that if someonewere to pick the book up, they must instantly put it down, becausesurely now they knew it was sacred, sacred enough to be named!What a beautiful thing it was, to write something down, to shape andmold perspective, to transcribe the intangible in a logical, legible,linear way, to take one's spirit and transfer it so that someone elsecould simply look and soak in and feel, complexly and completely.The young girl obviously did not say these things, and she couldn’thave come close if she had tried, but her heart sung as sheescaped through words, whether she read or wrote them, and thetrunk of the Japanese maple developed a little dent in the spot thatshe revisited again and again. This is the beauty that is the writtenword. It is meant to be transformative, both of one’ssurroundings and to one’s person. As the girl grew older, and hermother no longer had need of an Avery Cottage, she still foundherself completely shaped by literary works, clinging to thepowerful nature of that which is not only seen and understood butfelt. As the saying goes, “the pen is mightier than the sword.”Literature breathes and lives and changes, as do people, and asdoes the world.IVY FARNSWORTHAorta Literary Magazine 06About the author: Ivy Farnsworth is a 17year old from Milton, Ga. Besides writing,she enjoys participating in her schoolchoir, cooking for her family, and going tothe gym.

MANGOSEASONThey teach you how to wait here,How to keep your palms patient, open,like bowls.The year tightens, a small thing,A belt pulled a notch too far.You count days by the sound of rain on the roof,you count hunger by how your hands tremble.Then the first yellow is a shout,A bruise of sun on the branch.You go out with both hands,No ceremony.and the flesh gives like forgiveness.Juice runs a sermon down your arms.The world is suddenly messy and holy.You eat as if you might forget how,as if remembering would starve you again.Each bite is a small, loud yes,sweetness nailed to the tongue,the stick of it on your chin,the laugh that comes before the swallow.But not everyone arrives at sweetness.Some are lost mid-journey,carrying only the hunger,their hands still open, waiting.Neighbors lean out of doors like old prayers,sharing half a fruit, a story, an index fingerthat still glows with sugar.We talk about little things weather, debts,and in the pauses we trade the map of our mouths.There is no grand line here, no final lessononly thiswhen the trees bend, you take.When the trees lift their heads, you wait.Between those two motions the city keeps breathing,and our skins keep remembering how to be thirstyand how to open.At night you sleep with your hands sticky,and that stick is the proof,you lived, you wanted,you took what came, and you passed it on.FAVOUR OSONDUAorta Literary Magazine 07About the author: Favour Osondu is aNigerian Poet and Writer. She is 18 yearsof age and has multiple published worksacross different platforms, ranging frompoetry to articles.

SHEHASAPACTShe cried, cursed, hissed and huffedUntold anguish ripped up her heartThe world she knew once lies besmirchedHer now and then, fallen apartBrought to naughtShe cries out in the midnight wakeThough exhausted, kept wide awakeFor endless pain and torment's sakeShe stretches forth her hand to takeHold of the draughtDon’t forget she has a pactHer formidable impactLife’s enemies to distractReach her destiny intact–Sorely foughtShe threw out her souvenirHer soul’s very own memoirAt her hand life had requiredHer gladness, broken and tiredLean and fraughtEarth with its callous embraceDid not offer chance to brace–Bowed aground her swollen faceCancelled out of life's dear raceGround to noughtBut her calmness, deep and starkSet off trouble with a smirkWanton fear and silly irkNever flickered out her sparkAs it sought.BERYL AUMA OWINOAorta Literary Magazine 08About the author: Beryl Owino is a 19-yearold freelance article writer and poet. Based in Nairobi, Kenya, she has workedwith a local content writer community. She also composes deeply reflective,emotional poems which through whichshe seeks to paint the picture of humanexperience in a dynamic, candid yetthought-provoking manner.

STRAWBERRY WINEANDN95SApocalypse Lover,My eyes have adjustedAnd you are just as gorgeousOut of the sunlightUnder our roofBig light off, fairy lights buzzingIn here, the air is so stuffy and sweetAnd cleanBreathe in, breathe out with meMelt into my skindance alonewith meSweet Strawberry SangriaEighteen-fifty by the jugDown it into plastic dollar Target cupsPour me a glass, take a sipKiss me dizzy in betweenI’ll take you and four walls any dayOver my sunshiney summer of solitudeStitched to a lawn chair andBackyard property linesClinging to a live stream ofa crooked governorTelling us New York would be okayI had fewer lines drawn on me thenMore muscle on my bonesMore color in my faceLess disinfectantinjected into my veins butWhat a sighOf relief it isTo have my heart quicken to the trillof your neighboring voiceInstead of the dingPingRingba-zingof my tired phoneCLARE IRIARTEAorta Literary Magazine 09About the author: Clare Iriarte is a 25year old Queens NY native. She has a BAin Creative Writing from BinghamtonUniversity and works in MarketingOperations for HBO. In her spare timeshe likes to journal, write short storiesand poetry, and play rec soccer.

STRAWBERRY WINEANDN95SIf you must go outside,Brave the world with courage, carefullyTighten your black N95Stand six feet awayDon’t linger, don’t breatheInhale and hold it thereLet it go as you step through our doorTake my hand the moment you see meThen promise,don’t let go, stayStayStaySafe here with meClass is on the screenSo watch it in bed with meI’ll listen to your politicsYou’ll listen to my poetryBe here with meUnder the sheets, between my skinInhale, exhaleSing loudly with meWandavision WednesdaysBirthday cakesReality TVSweet Strawberry Sangria by the jugAd-breaks, fruity lipsDrunken kissYou’re my other halfMy perfect sanctuaryHistory will pity usFor the end of the worldRobbing us of our precious primeBut now that everything spins againI look back, hungover, bittersweetWhen I was youAnd you were meMy sunshine, your girlCalamity darlingsDistanced, togetherCLARE IRIARTEAorta Literary Magazine 10

HOW TOBEAHUMANINYOURHOMEI live in fear of making a sound in my own home. Maybe it’s one moreeffect of the transformation to fear-of-other-humans that hascharacterized Seattle culture since well before COVID19. Also, I recentlymoved to this old house with significant foundation issues and aWashington State ferry full of other issues I didn’t discover/wasn’tinformed about until after I’d signed the lease, including that leasesigning and payments were the only things the landlords followed upon in any respectable time frame. My search for a living situationwhere people generally gave a crap about each other’s well-beingwhether or not there was a protracted global crisis to replace myalienating, individualistic one had thus far proven to be like trying to finda drop of sun in a Seattle-winter cloudstack.The Search For Housing in this city, brought to you by the letter H forhorrific housing crisis, would not be made easier by a little pandemic;Seattle residents had had to scramble to move, often stretchingalready threadbare budgets to save up to pay rent in two places sinceno way anything stayed available for the 30 days’ notice you had togive your landlord, for over a decade. Part of the problem is that I stillbelieve people mean what they say literally, so when someonepromises to “get back to me,” I still waste time waiting as if I’ve learnednothing at all about Seattle culture from living here for 14 years. Finally, Ifound a quirky old house with three other Christian women who’d allprofessed belief in an ethic of care, buzzing as if I’d never been burnedbefore and moved in with naïve excitement about spontaneous latenight chats and house trips to Costco.A house agreement—prioritize work and sleep for everyone—soundsgreat on its face. It takes me a week, via a “sound tour” that waspresented as “everyone gets to experience what sound is like foreveryone else in the house” but focused mainly on the needs of oneparticular housemate, to learn what it actually means: all the fans inthe house have to be on at all times to cover up the minutest soundsanywhere in the house and, because my room is directly above theroom of the voice-teacher housemate, there are certain places andways I have to walk in my own room. I have to walk down the creakieststaircase in the world in the dark without letting it creak because thehousemate who shares the 3rd floor with me doesn’t have a door toher room and I can’t open and close the door to my room because,due to foundation issues and the house slowly collapsing to the right, itdoesn’t fit in its frame despite a handyman coming to do a Band-Aid fixtwice.MEGAN WILDHOODAorta Literary Magazine 11

HOW TOBEAHUMANINYOURHOMEAn “ethic of care” seems like sweet relief initially. But there’s that peopledon’t-speak-literally thing again. It takes less than a month for that tobe revealed for what it truly is: I am supposed to care/make roomfor/accommodate others. When my stuff is moved without my beingasked, the expectation to just “go with the flow” is pressurized. When thevoice instructor reads student emails and mocks those who areentrusting their education to her to us, pointing out the potential FERPAviolation is not the kind of “care” we’d talked about as a house. Whenthe housemate who shares the 3rd floor with me lets her alarm clockgo off for half an hour, the voice instructor, who voluntarily moved fromthis quiet closet in the upper corner of the house to the room thatmagnifies every single sound no matter where it occurs because sheneeded more space for filming her dancing routines, reminds me withthe smile she always had as the ready for the stage: “Well, your room isthe most soundproof in the house, remember?”Spontaneous house gatherings feels like what would hit the spotduring these deeply disconnected, digitized times. It quickly becomesone housemate planning events and writing minimal information onthe house calendar—“People can reach out for more information if theywant to join!” But I can’t simply ignore events on days I’m busy—or feelfree to just not want to spend time with someone who I feel souncomfortable, inferior and like I’m always doing something wrongaround: she informs us in our first house meeting that she has a“tender spot” she “needs to protect” and may not put herself out thereand plan so much if people don’t respond in some way to herovertures of community building. This is what I said I wanted, I try to tellmyself for the first few months; so why does it make me want to runback to my old housing situation, where the only time housematestalked to each other was to yell at whoever they believed didn’t sweepthe kitchen?So I live in fear of being not only myself but also human at home, theplace the pandemic has relegated everything to. At least thecontortion, rule following and constant adrenaline of what have Iforgotten? is good practice for going out into the COVID world. I won’tbe holding my breath for a vaccine to inoculate a human against theneed for human connection, but living with housemates (which isrequired for most single, non-tech employees in Seattle) who lackempathy or even basic self-awareness comes pretty close.MEGAN WILDHOODAorta Literary Magazine 12

HOW TOBEAHUMANINYOURHOMEYet, lest I lose my humanity altogether, I am finding ways to take mypower back. Turns out, they’re easier to snag than sun in Seattleclouds. I use a headlamp when using the stairs in the dark (which it isbasically all the time these days in this city); my third-floor buddy canhang blackout curtains if my efforts not to fall down the stairs disturbher sleep. I move around my room however I damn well desire to,barring jumping jacks, which the house probably couldn’t structurallyhandle happening on the third floor anyway. I do those, and the rest ofmy exercises designed to tell the chronic pain to cool it, in the laundryroom, which another housemate reassured herself about all thespiders in it “is practically outside.” I let my 3rd-floor buddy know whenher alarm clock is still going off. Every time. I cook when I need to cook.I don’t apologize when I drop something. I savor the connections withthose who are open to me and my quirks when I can get them; I getoff my own back about caretaking someone else’s sore spots, don’tattend outings when I can’t or don’t want to and don’t feel bad aboutany of it.I am not moving. At least not for now. Moving from a bad situation, lessthan six months ago, is what got me into this one. It’s not just about thepanicky despondency I feel when I think about packing up all my stuffagain—I have since acquired a bad-ass, purple and sea-green, custommade bed frame that had to be taken apart and rebuilt in my room,and the friend who created it for me is earlobe deep in a gnarlynervous breakdown, so now is, among other things, not the time toasking for moving help. It’s that running from hard things withoutstanding up for myself isn’t a thing I’m doing anymore. Neither is blackor-white thinking. Looking for the gray, or at least the black and thewhite, is how I can allow others to be human, too. If that’s what I wantto be in my own home, it’s the least I can do for others who live herewith me, even if I have to regularly hold my breath for reciprocity.MEGAN WILDHOODAorta Literary Magazine 13About the author: Megan Wildhood is a writer in Southern Indiana who is almost 40 but rcan't believe it as she feels like she's abou (she's a youth services librarian, so her days spent hanging out with kids zero to 18). She lto helps her readers feel seen in her monewsletter, poetry chapbook Long Div(Finishing Line Press, 2017), her full-length pocollection Bowed As If Laden With S(Cornerstone Press, May 2023) as well as Ma America, The Sun and elsewhere. You can lmore about her at meganwildhood.com.

FLOWEROF THEGODSDearest scarlet loveDo you ever dream of me?Like I do you?Do the voices invade, infest, inundate your thoughts,Do they whisper my name the same?Ink strewn over paper, letters I cannot sendImprinted over velvetEngraved in my soul,To the wisps of wind I begSing thee my truth in wholeI would lay at your feetIf you’d ever only ask me tomy chest hollowed, its contents laid bareAs vulnerable as can be, submit to your touch.The butterflies in my gutsFlutter and floatAnd bloom out of controlLove dug its teethDeep into my fleshAnd suck out all the lifeFrom underneath my skinMy forbidden fruit, my viceMy golden apple, my Helen of TroyRunning faucets of words lament,They scream and cry and bleed out your nameceaseless rivers from the gods’ gobletBlossom in to versesSeep into paperPlague my thoughts til red fades to blackTil sweet turned sour, water turned wineGhosts of merlot and thornberry vinesSeize my sanity and capture my heartLove me, I begNeed me, I pleadFor in the endDianthus caryophyllus, inflorescencesTo my dearest I cannot send.VALERIE NGUYENAorta Literary Magazine 14About the author: Valerie Nguyen is a 15-yearVietnamese poet, trying to get her work and name out into the world from her crambedroom in the bustling heart of Vietnam's cacity— Hanoi. She is trying to get her first pobook traditionally published, while also being editor-in-chief for Lemon PO box, a Vietna based project aiming to provide support students worldwide. Her work is heavily influenby floriography, the language of flowers, and floriographic elements often play a vital rol them, or in the least, serve as inspiration.

GROWINGUP INTHE 80SRecently, a younger man with whom I work at church began playingpop hits from the 1980s, and I couldn’t help but smile. When he askedwhy, I responded with a question of my own: “Why do you like 80smusic from Michael Jackson, Prince, Genesis, Def Leppard, even RickAstley?” His reply was longer than the space allowed below, or the timeallowed to leave these thoughts. Essentially, he hated current musictrends (and I tend to agree wholeheartedly) and considered the 80s amassive mystery. Inquiries flooded from his brain quicker than hismouth could keep up: how did you get together with friends when youdidn’t have cell phones? What’s a rotary phone? Did computers evenexist? What did you do for gaming? What if you missed out onsomething? As he scrambled to utter the words to these questions, Itook a seat, laughed to myself, and took a 10 minute time travel trip intothe dusty filing cabinets of my memories.Beyond any modern comparison, I believe growing up in the 80s willnever be replicated. In a way, those of us who grew up in the 80s andearly 90s were the final generation of children who created our ownadventures, worth, value, reputations, respect, and social outlets byengaging with other kids in the neighborhood, street, suburb, etc. Thedrastic shift of moving from outdoor renegades to indoor tech-savvy(and tech-dependent) was soon to come. Generations of kids hadgone before us having fun this same way. Now, nothing will be thesame.As Tracy Chapman began singing about a fast car, I explained life as ateenager in the late 80s. My greatest possession was my BMX bike.There were no scooters, mopeds, Segways, etc. Some kids hadskateboards, but riding those took two things I did not have: balanceand skill. Everyone knew everyone in my neighborhood, and althoughkids my age were scattered, living miles away, we always seemed tocome together through some weird sixth sense like awareness thatfun was being had somewhere. Hunting it down was part of the fun.Everyone played together even if athletics were lacking for those of usuncoordinated and awkward. Since I grew up in central Indiana, Ilearned how to shoot a basketball well because everyone did. Even asa wrestler who could not dribble without looking at the ball or completea layup, I still knew how to shoot the rock. Every girl was a “Tomboy”and could hold their own with the boys. Funny to realize equality wasnatural. Racism and sexism are learned behaviors, and we didn’t needto know about those things.RYAN AKERSAorta Literary Magazine 15

GROWINGUP INTHE 80SBoys will be boys, though, and fighting was part of the rite of passage. Myyoung friend looked terrified while I described episodes when I was beatdown, or when I beat up someone. Bloody lips and busted nosesaccompanied by black eyes always brought unwanted attention, especially atschool. But here’s peculiar deal: whoever fought didn’t hold a grudge andeach fight led to unspoken forgiveness and tighter friendships. Bizarre to me;completely nuts to the audience. My buddies and I could entertain ourselvesendlessly just by riding around or going into wooded areas outside of thehousing subdivision. You know what really appealed to us? Dirt and lumber!We could have dirt clod fights or build forts by using lumber remnants thrownaway as houses were constructed all over. That’s all we needed. We didn’tcare if we looked like Pigpen from the Peanuts cartoons when we camehome. Mother Earth was our dear companion.I shifted to talking about rotary phones and how there was only one phone inour household, found in the kitchen. I recall it being yellow with a 50-foot curlycord so we could try to avoid parents and siblings when talking. There was nocall waiting, star 69 ability, or three-way calling. If you missed the call, youwouldn’t know who called until the next day at school or in the neighborhood.Answering machines were around, yes, but no one bought them. Whenmaking plans, we would agree to meet somewhere days in advance at a veryprecise time. Small town Indiana didn’t have many choices for get togethersafter Friday night football games. We would always meet at Pizza King andplay video games with real money. No bank accounts or debit cards wereavailable, my young level-headed friend. And when we had our parents takeus somewhere else, those friends who showed up late were lost causes.Surprisingly, I don’t remember FOMO (aka “Fear of Missing Out”) such a bigdeal as it seems to be today. If you wanted to know what we did or whathappened, you had to know how to tell a story properly unlike postingrandom images on a social media network with music selects. Heck, it couldhave been 100 years ago as I received nervous laughter and bewilderedlooks.What were cellular phones? We hadn’t a clue. We referred to them as carphones for the rich folks.Our clothes came from K-Mart, and usually found on layaway until schoolstarted. It was certainly not unusual to see other people wearing the sameoutfits day after day. Eating out at a restaurant was a thing every now andthen! Fast food? Often, the closest we came to fast food was eating leftoversat home. Eating popsicles was a treat on a hot day. We had fake cigs forcandy, yet none of us smoked actual cigarettes. It’s still hard to believe wecould ride to a gas station and buy plenty of candy for a dollar or less! Schoolwas mandatory. We took our school clothes off as soon as we came homeand put on our dingy play clothes. If no parents were home after school, wewent to the neighbors. Nobody paid for daycare because we had a key to thehouse to get in when we got home.RYAN AKERSAorta Literary Magazine 16

GROWINGUP INTHE 80SWe ate dinner at the table. Our house phone wasn't allowed to be used, evenif it was ringing. Instead, we worked our way around the table with reports ofour day. Best and worst. Whatever was served was received with gratitude orelse we heard the stories of Ethiopian children starving to death. No onecomplained. Everyone enjoyed family dinner at least 75% of the time. We atewhat Mom made for dinner or we ate nothing at all. Microwaves wererelatively new, so we learned how to cook and grew up fast in the kitchen.Many evenings, I found a Post-it note stuck on the fridge with the abbreviation“YOYO” on it in big letters. What did that mean? “You’re on your own.”What did we drink? Water, mostly. But bottled water wasn’t around like it istoday. We drank from the tap, community drinking fountains, water coolers,and garden hoses. Crazy, right? How did we survive drinking bad water?We played Cops and Robbers, 1-2-3 Not It, Red Light Green Light, Hide & Seek,Truth or Dare, Tag, Kickball, Dodgeball, and whatever else we could come upto waste time. Touch football? Hell no! Tackle football played until someonewent home bleeding, bruised, and crying. How we loved to ride bikes… all daylong. We built forts and treehouses in the woods. Children played in the street.We came home when the streetlights came on.Children were seen and not heard. In an odd way, we weren’t allowed in thehouse unless we were sleeping, showering, studies, or satisfying our hunger.No one dared staying in the house. Being grounded to my room made it feellike Folsom. Our parents were adamant about my brother, sister, and mestaying in the house because we said we were listless. Threats of unfoundedpunishment to cure our boredom were promised. And they worked!Phone numbers and addresses were either memorized or written on afolded piece of paper which was always kept with you! Amazing what we didwith our memories. Just like the old adage learned years ago: smart phonesmake dumb people. Isn’t that the truth?We watched cartoons on Saturday mornings for hours on end until “oldpeople” programming began at noon. We loved to read, especially StephenKing novels. We loved horror movies: Friday the 13th, Halloween, Nightmare onElm Street, The Shining, you name it. We’d have slumber parties for birthdaysand rent scary films from Blockbuster on VHS. It’s important to recall how webecame fixated on dark thrills. Jaws was a popular movie when we wereunder ten years old, and the result was most of us avoided swimming pools.In fact, I wore floaties on my arms until I was eighteen years old. Just kidding!The most popular movies of the 80s were all cloaked in survival, action, jumpscares, and mystery: Raiders of the Lost Arc, The Goonies, Poltergeist, E.T. theExtra-Terrestrial, Beetlejuice, Batman, Ghostbusters, Red Dawn, and BlueVelvet to name an iota. I think the only “normal” movie I saw before going tohigh school was Hoosiers because it was filmed in nearby areas. If you thinkabout these movies, it's no wonder my friends and I would seek action,adventure, and treasure hunting somewhere somehow each day. We didn’tneed video games. The real adventure was exploring the real world. Somelessons stay with me to this moment.RYAN AKERSAorta Literary Magazine 17

GROWINGUP INTHE 80SSpeaking of video games, Atari was around when we were about 10 years old,and it was cool while it lasted. By 1984, video games could only be found andplayed in the shopping mall arcade. The games we played were physical,psychological, emotional, and incredibly creative. The stunts we pulled wereprodigious and legendary. They deserve a Netflix limited series at least.During the summer, we would camp out in the yard with a parent casuallykeeping an eye on us. We were pranksters and jokers, yet we always kept itreal and never hurt anyone or damaged property. Strange to think that weactually had strong moral fiber despite all of devious deeds and crazy antics!We watched our mouths around our elders. If we acted up, we got beat witha wooden paddle, switch or belt! Common ground for uncommon acts of lowdiscipline. Par for the course.Still, we were afraid of nothing. These were the good old days.Kids today will never know how it feels to be a child of the 80s, no matter howlong or elaborate I tell a story. After sharing these tidbits and more specifictales of first loves and hard crushes, I watched my friend start to walk away.He just didn’t get it. Intentionally tapering off my talking, I finished a sentencefragment on purpose as he stared in locked concentration at his iPhone. Henodded a couple of times, unaware I didn’t make any sense. The musicswitched to some sort of profane robot hip-hop. All I could do was chuckle tomyself, remembering old friends from my youth, lost in the folds of time. Weexperienced the best of times for that period in our lives. We were trulyblessed during that decade.Just like the end of Stand by Me, when Richard Dreyfuss’s character finishesthe last line in his autobiographical memoir, I whispered to myself: “I neverhad any friends later on like the ones I had when I was twelve. Jesus, doesanyone?”RYAN AKERSAorta Literary Magazine 18About the author: Ryan Akers, 52, was born Chicago, IL before being raised in Fort Worth and Memphis, TN. From high school thrograduate school, Akers lived in Indiana became a published writer at age 13. Since th he has published over 200 works in short ficttheology, poetry, and personal memoirs. Rlives happily with his bride, Brandi, in Peoria, AZ

WORDSBROUGHTBYTHE WINDSWhistling quietly in the dim light of warehouse 48b. Stacking four feet cardboard boxesin towers of three, his hand slipped as the bell rang, signifying the end of the shift. Sighing at thepackaged chair strewn upon the floor, he squatted down to lift it up once more, placing it on themetallic rack, before taking off his grey cap, spinning it around his forefinger, walking out intothe night.Whistling quietly in the dim light of warehouse 44a. At the very least, he didn’t have todo the exact same thing each day, thanks to the nature of his job. Arranging A4 lined books in aplastic cupboard, his eyes stared at the blank paper as the bell rang for the 2am break. Reachinginto his pocket as he always did, he pulled out the diary they had left him. Flipping to the nextpage, he read what his mother had written. After finishing the page, he closed the book onceagain, and grabbed the malted milk biscuits in his bag.Whistling quietly in the dim light of warehouse 40b. Though it was taxing, he wasgrateful for his night shift. It gave him reason. It gave him purpose. Throwing ten packs ofballpoint pens in a large clear bag, as the bell rang for the end of tonight’s work, the tune on hislips came to a close. Sealing the bag, he hooked it up in the finished area, before turning to leave.Doing so, his eyes locked with a woman in the same attire as him exiting the building. Themoment passed.Whistling quietly in the dim light of warehouse 36a. He’d scratched his hand at the startof the shift. If it wasn’t for the stain on the box, he wouldn’t have noticed. As the bell rang forbreak, he reached for the diary in his pocket as he customarily would, only to catch himselfdoing so, not wanting to coat it in the trickle of blood falling from his left hand’s middle finger.Entering the break room. Entering the quiet break room once more, his eyes locked with thatwoman again. He nodded. After a pause, so did she.Whistling quietly in the dim light of warehouse 32b. Shoving a box for a wifi routersnuggly into place, the bell rang for the day’s end and the day’s beginning. The early winter coldwas a surprise, and it was certainly an unwelcome one. Thanking his previous self for hisforesight, he began wrapping his neck with his brown and black scarf. Stepping out, he walked tothe bus stop. She was there. With nothing to escape the awkwardness, he opened his mouth tospeak.“My name’s Idris. Yours?”The pause returned for longer now, only for a name to float by on the whispering wings of thewind.“Mara.”TANITOLUWA ADEFISANAorta Literary Magazine 19

WORDSBROUGHTBYTHE WINDSWhistling quietly in the dim light of warehouse 28a. The break room had a few morepeople today. There was a hiring notice sent out on multiple forums, so that only made sense.Sitting down in his usual spot, he saw Mara walk in, going to the vending machine to buy abottle of sparkling water and salted crisps. Honestly, he was craving fried chicken. Lookingdown at the diary in front of him, he flipped onto the next page to find it divided into a part fromhis mom and a part from his father. His mom wrote to him about her idiotic commute, withsomeone singing passionate blues on the underground, while his dad talked of the amazing stirfry he’d made, surpassing the high standards of both his wife and son. Eyes welled with tears inthe dim light of warehouse 28a. Someone saw those tears.Whistling quietly in the dim light of warehouse 24b. The bell rang. It was time to leave.Taking off his grey cap, spinning it around his forefinger, he walked into the night. There weremore people at the bus stop, battling the morning cold. A few minutes passed, with no sign of thebus. Eyes closed, he heard a hushed voice whisper.“Why were you crying yesterday?”Surprise struck him like a swift bolt of lightning. Posed with such a raw andstraightforward , his heart shattered, as he talked of day’s long gone by, and people he could nolonger hold close.Whistling quietly in the dim light of warehouse 20a. The warehouse complex was huge.So, it took a while for him to get to warehouse 20a, with the continuous stops for each building.Apparently, he was meant to be boxing tables with someone else today. It was a new employee,and probably their first night shift. They did well, and after a few mishaps, they entered asatisfying enough rhythm that they continued for a time after the bell had rung. Shaking hands,the two of them separated as they entered the break room. Sitting down, he prepared to open hisparent’s journal once more. However, someone sat in front of him. And, just like he had, Marabegan to speak of days long gone by, and future dreams of the big stage. She didn’t cry or smile.Whistling quietly in the dim light of warehouse 16b. He’d come into work with a cold. Itwasn’t like he could take a day off, what else would he do? Packaging cutlery into boxes withgloved hands as he sniffled and wiped his nose, the bell rang for the finality of this Thursdaymorning shift. Sealing the final box, he heard the usual shuffle of people collecting their headsbefore heading out into the cold black morning. He didn’t dare cover his face with his mother’sscarf, in fear that he might coat it with the snot and spit that came hand in hand with the season.Someone greeted him in the misty haze of fever. They were asking for his name. Idris, wasn’t it?At least he’d helped someone out. Though, he couldn’t help the people he would commemoratetomorrow. His parents could only be remembered.Whistling quietly in the dim light of warehouse 12a. He always tried to be jovial on theanniversary of their death. So, he went into work with energy and elation. Well, he tried to atleast. The grief came in waves, as it always would. Each wave larger and fiercer than the last,battering his heart and soul over and over. Yet, his smile remained. The bell rang for thebeginning of break. Slapping the number forty six into the keypad of the vending machine, a redcan fell rhythmically into the opening of the machine. It tasted great going down. Almost likethe punch she used toTANITOLUWA ADEFISANAorta Literary Magazine 20

WORDSBROUGHTBYTHE WINDS“Hey.”Mara. Could he call her a friend now? Probably. It was good to see a familiar face on a day likethis.Whistling quietly in the dim light of warehouse 8b. It was a tune his father had taughthim. It was heartening. Filled to the brim with life and hope. One to surpass even the darkest ofnights. Or, in this case, the most boring of night shifts. Boxing smaller boxes for use on the clientside. Truly riveting. Luckily, after break, Mara was able to come help him, saving him from themadness of monotony. Monday’s were never the easiest. Today wasn’t too bad. Mara’s bus camebefore him. With a bit of hesitation prior, she raised her hand as a farewell.Whistling quietly in the dim light of warehouse 4a. The break had begun, so he went to opentheir diary once more.“Can I read today’s diary entry?”Looking up at Mara, his heart stopped for a moment. Could he call her a friend now? Yes.He could. A brown and black journal with tattered edges slid across the table. One page waswedged open by a bookmark, on which two names were written. Aura and Cruz Jacobs.‘From your overprotective mom.The water park today was hilarious. You and your ball of energy of a father bouncedabout like 8 year olds on a sugar high. In fact, with the various scoops of ice cream the both ofyou devoured, you’d out do those 8 year olds easily. I had fun today. Thanks for being so silly.Ps:I’ll prank your dad later. Justice must be served.’‘From your ‘goofball’ father.Man, you’re really bad at water fights. At your big age of fifteen, almost sixteen for thatmatter, and your old man is still beating you out in the field. I’m proud of you though. Yoursinging is going places, so keep at it. Proud of you son. Well, apart from your water fightingskills.Ps: Cold syrup was poured down my back. Justice was served.’Idris cried without shame in that break room. Mara stopped reading the page out loud. Breathingin and slowly breathing out, she went to softly pat his hair.Whistling in the neon lights of a fast food shop. Two people sat in blue leather seats, eating friedchicken in joy and peace.TANITOLUWA ADEFISANAorta Literary Magazine 21About the author: Tanitoluwa Adefisan is a 17 yold Christian author living in the UK wcontinues to strive towards getting his varshort stories into fun and interesmagazines(most of them are). He especially la cup of green tea with honey and ginger wwriting late at night.

EXPECTATIONISADICTATORWelcome to our kingdom,a meretricious state united by honeyed provocation.Depraved are we,who have been blessed by our king’s glee,for once you step into his quicksand palace,espy you will, no steady trace of solace.Giddy upon saccharine wineserved by jesters disguised as dreams,sway I did, on these bruised feet of mine,believing the sting in my throat wasn't from a scream.Drowning in this bacchanalia of madness,the illusion shattered too late;And suddenly I was breathless,dancing at the feet of a tyrant,the musical interlude long gone silent.Stopping was a death sentence,the quicksand beneath our feet a ready executioner.The royal subjects have succumbed to insentience,they are now the king’s sinners.Pause, and you will get trampled, torn apart.Such devoted slaves are we,to the oppressor whose throne is hewn in our hearts.So I’ll keep on dancing and smiling;breathe in the highand pretend there’s no low.After all,the desire to matter is truly addicting, no?FATIMA SHEHRINAorta Literary Magazine 22About the author: Fatima Shehrin is a 17 year writer from Bangladesh. Throughout her teenyears, she has earned numerous accolafrom school competitions and is the autho \"The Diamond in the Rough\".

STILLYou brought me to the bedthe bedIt was blueon the windowscoming throughyou sat me downI grabbed my dressyou told me to sitstillI looked down& upheld my skinstill stillYou touched my knee& thenthere was blue between you& memy sistersat besideunsureI was confusedI cried but i didntknow if i shouldcrymy dress on my kneesthe woodwasdark& the roses smelled sweetI learned that life is long& short for someI was confusedstill stillKAITLIN NEALAorta Literary Magazine 23

STILLonyour chest&cryingsome obligation to mytears& I was thereon the floorthe wood sodarkwhen you told me shedied alone& I wasgoneshe prayed to Godthat she would die by hissidehe said that life is long& short for some& when his mother wailedat the vasethe vaseit was blueI criedI was confusedhe wasgone& the roses still smelled sweetKAITLIN NEALAorta Literary Magazine 24About the author: Kaitlin Neal is a 26-yearqueer poet based in Alberta, Canada. Kaitwork explores their own experiences with iden belonging, connection and mental illness. Kahas been published in Shadow and Sax LiteArts Magazine and has a poetry zine availabl the Grant MacEwan University Library.

SWEET POTATOPressure-cookers do explode,accolading the silent tearsand tight fists stompingon the countertop.I baptised the bare potatoes in the basin.Why have we been spoon-feedingour weary nights with screensand unspoken digits withkeyboard’s clacking?I undressed the potatoes of their quite coats.Why are sounds being broadcastedechoing in the dark chambersof our heart, purple walls,killing the white noise.The potatoes tumbled into the pot’s hollow heart.Why do we let our shy mindand lucid eyes rummageagainst the desires ofother spectators?The boiling potatoes drum while the cooker whistles.The skyscrapers are racing for life,disorienting our core beliefs,infinite lies, damagingour damaged anima.The rigid potatoes have been boiledto fire’s grip, I stirred and shifted,my mindset from victim to apexpredator’s cognition.I eat the warmth of sweet potatoes,it seeps gently to my stressed soul.RUCHI ACHARYAAorta Literary Magazine 25About the author: Ruchi Acharya (b. 1995) is Founder & CEO of Wingless Dreamer Publis an Oxford graduate, and author of *Off the CFeatured in 100+ journals, she champliterature and culture. Based in Mumbai, explores history while nurturing writers worldw www.ruchiacharya.com \"All worries are less wine.\"

THE PRICEOFHUMANITYas the feline stumbles away from home,embracing death in solitude,so does the human trudge through life,until the endless labor is haltedwhy does humanity yearn to be known and seen?confronted by the mighty oak trees and mountains,have you not learned of your insignificance?in a century,your own flesh and blood will not know your story.they will wear your facial features,smile with your mother’s dimples,and never spare you a thoughtthere’s your legacythey hold their breath as they trample aboveovergrown weeds have claimed your tombstonethe name that was yours is unknown,and there are tens of thousands of new humanswho have pried it from your skeletal jawand wear it as their own.push through this difficult chapter of lifeto find peace and rest, you tell yourself,and repeat for the next sixty yearsuntil the mantra is the only thing helping youthrough the challenges that have becomebreathing, eating, and sleepingif you’re lucky, your imagined peace and restwill grace you with their presenceas an inscription on the aforementioned tombstoneuntil then, enjoy the many years at your desk,where you will spend the majority of your life,paying the price of humanityOLIVIA GASHAorta Literary Magazine 26About the author: Olivia Gash is 21 years old lives in Pennsylvania. She has published a sstory in the Green Blotter Literary MagaSpring 2025 edition, as well as poetry in Scarred Tree and Nailpolish Stories litejournals.

SOMETIMES IT FELT LIKE MYFATHER WASHELDTOGETHERBYSCARSThe ropy scaron his back,the one from beforeI was born,leatheryand snake-likethe onemy mothertalkedabout so oftenand with such fervorI could seethe surgeoncut through skinthen fascia and muscle,finally reachingmy father’s twistedand tortuous esophagusto liberate itfrom itself.And the small, serrated scaron his right kneethat would never againpush the suburbanlawnmoweror bowlwith his buddieson Thursday nightsor golfon Sunday mornings.The knee that wouldforever be bracedand swollen.CLAIRE WEINERAorta Literary Magazine 27

The longstraightscar, redand raised,that camefrom flayinghis torsolike a koshercut of beef,as his truebroken heartwas repairedwith harvestedpieces of himself.The scar that no oneever sawbut that followedmy father and his fatherwho fled a smallspeck on a mapsomewherebetween Kyiv and Minsk,a scarinvisiblelike molduntil you notice it,black and menacing.Aorta Literary Magazine 28SOMETIMES IT FELT LIKE MYFATHER WASHELDTOGETHERBYSCARSCLAIRE WEINERAbout the author: Claire Weiner is the autho For a Chance to Walk on Streets of Gold chapbook published in 2024. Her work has bpublished in various journals. She is curreworking on a full length volume of poetry.

I don’t even remember the date or even their names. The only thing I recall was that one of their nameswas “Spitz”. But when I was in grade 6, my three dogs were shot while my TV was stolen. I did not cry, I didnot dwell, I did not feel guilty. At least, not until a few years later. There was no funeral. I don’t evenremember when and where they were buried. They probably were, but I was too young to notice.My dogs were shot, and I didn’t care.I don’t think the rest of my family did either, except for my dad. They cared more for my lola, who slept inthe room, and the empty hole in the wall that was positioned where our now-former TV stood. I knew whysome people cry because of a dead pet, but I haven’t internalized it. I didn’t put it into practice. I couldn’tforce a cry when I heard the news. Isn’t that what humans are supposed to do? Ask me what madesomeone cry for a dead pet, and I would have answered because they loved them. But I did not cry, Idon’t think I’ve also loved them either. So did my siblings, and we barely spent time with them. They werealways in the cage, constantly running outside but not allowed to be with us.“They weren’t mine” was the thought that I unknowingly used to rationalize why I wasn’t crying. I was moreselfish back then. But what if you didn’t cry for something? I don’t think that you necessarily are a terribleperson. What causes someone to cry for something at all, and what does it mean if you don’t? People willcry for something if they have a connection, that’s for sure, and not crying means you don’t have astrong reaction to it. This then opens another question: what does it mean when you don’t cry? I’m notjustifying why I didn’t cry. But I know why I didn’t shed tears.I just had no love for them.My Lola (yes, the same one who slept through everything) died later in the year. One day after my Lolodied. We were abroad in America when my mom had to come home earlier without telling us why. I calledher “Lola Mamang”, she spent the majority of her days in our house. She had her own house, but shewanted to see us consistently. She was pushing 80 and she wanted to spend what she viewed as the lastyears of her life, with us. Because she loved us. Lola Mamang would spend weeks at a time in our house.“Wala si Mommy eh”, was what she’d use as her ‘excuse’. I wish I heard that again.She said that every morning, she wanted to see us smile because she loved seeing us happy. A kinderjoy would be there on the counter daily because we loved the toys and the chocolate. The last time I sawher, she cried. She just arrived from home (she came here for a few weeks, then left a week or so at atime) because she said she wanted to spend more days here. She didn’t know we were going for theairport. So she cried a lot, just the thought of us leaving made her sob. Then she died two weeks later, justbefore we came back.I cried this time.I still remember the funeral, and the date too this time: May 4, I couldn’t hold my tears when I saw herface in that coffin. She couldn't talk to me about school anymore. She couldn’t come to watch TV with usagain every morning. We couldn’t eat treats together. And I couldn’t hear her voice. I lost a connection. Ihad solid memories with her that I held close to myself. We experience a lot of deaths in life, and the firstone is in the heart. On that day I experienced one of my first pains. I guess that was the differencebetween my dogs and my Lola. I had memories to look back with her, while I barely spent time with “my”dogs at all. Maybe if dogs could talk, I would have cried then. I would have shown emotion if I spent moretime with my dogs, but I didn’t. That’s why I didn’t have any love for them, and I had love for my lola. One ofthem showed me care and what it felt like to be precious. With her absence, I felt the hole. But the dogs?They weren't able to make an impact on me. When they died, I could not feel a difference. While my Lola’sfuneral broke me, in contrast:The dogs’ deaths just marked another day.Aorta Literary Magazine 29MYDOGS WERE SHOTANDIDIDN’TCAREJOHN MAGSALIN

These wouldn’t be the last dogs I’d “own” though. I was given my own dog last year, a pomeranian named“Snake”. Why? Because my toddler brother was making fun of it and calling it one and at the same time Ifinished a game with a character having the same nickname. Snake slept beside me on the bed becauseshe felt more comfortable there. Maybe she’d piss on the floor and she’ll piss me off too. But Snake wasmy dog. I couldn’t get mad at her, I could only get slightly annoyed. I would cry if she died. I would feel ahole, a lack, in my life.The robbery incident with my old dogs did not leave a significant mark on my mind. I showed no sadness,and for a while, I told it as a “fun fact” story. Looking back, I was insensitive. The fact that I was able to say itas casually as I could reflected how I was barely emotionally affected by it. If someone can’t bringthemselves to cry over something, then they have no connection with it. I had no connections with thedogs, only my dad interacted with them outside. Crying is intimate. You cry to release pent-up energy, andfor me, these dogs did not inspire enough. If you can't cry, you’re not a terrible person. Crying isn’t arequirement to be one. No checklists exist for “good” people. What it does show though, is that it wasn’t asimportant as you may have thought. You’re not supposed to sob for something constantly. Because it’s asadness that’s released all in one go. But some people expect to cry on all deaths.Grade 7 this time. My brother and sister had fighting fishes. My sister died because we overfed it. She andmy brother are a year and three years younger than me respectively. Their fishes both died within twodays of each other. When my sister's fish died, she cried for a day.My sister’s fish died, and she cared.My brother didn’t. He was just calm about it. When his fish died he did not cry not care. He had otherthings to do after all. Does that make him a bad person? I’m not justifying anyone. But if there's somethingto be learnt then it’s that if something leaves and you don’t notice,You won’t cry.I’ve been talking about these dogs for a while, and the only thing you know about it is that they died. Theywere never given a background, never humanized. All that was said was the story, as if there is nothingmore to it. I’ll admit, I did use it as a story initially. I even used it as my essay title. I was shocked for a fewweeks, then I turned it into something more “positive” by sharing it as a fun fact. They were Rottweilers,and I’ve had them around since I was five. But that’s it. I don’t even remember the third one’s colors, thefirst one was black and the other was brown. This essay wasn’t able to humanize them because I couldn’tmyself.I hate that I couldn’t.It’s been around a year since I got Snake. One time, I left the door open and she ran out when I didn’tnotice. She was playing in the grass when she got picked up by another child who wanted to take herhome because she had no collar (I don’t like giving my dog one). I was doing my case study for school. Sofor two hours, I locked in, but I didn't notice my dog. Halfway through when I went downstairs and calledher name she did not respond. That was the first thing that felt off to me. But I kinda needed to finish it so Ididn’t pay mind. I was then called on the phone if I saw Snake. I said no. Then a few minutes later theycalled me. I didn’t notice where she was because in the gap where she was gone, I could not feel thedifference if she was there or not. After a few panicked calls, I got her back. I was happy. Because when Iwasn’t working on my case study I felt the lack of my dog’s presence.Aorta Literary Magazine 30MYDOGS WERE SHOTANDIDIDN’TCAREJOHN MAGSALIN

What were my priorities then? Why didn’t I notice her missing? In that incident, I was reminded of thedogs once more, because for a few moments I got comfortable not paying attention to my dog becauseof homework. I remembered my dogs, how I lost empathy because I wasn’t there. I would be lying if I saidI felt guilty. Yet to me it felt wrong that I didn’t. If this was Snake, I would have cried. I started reflectingmore. What else would I cry about? I would cry if my girlfriend died. I would have lost someone special,someone important. How about something less? I once had a pet turtle in grade 2, it died when weaccidentally left the door open and it walked to the street. I cried. I cried because I took care of it everyday, I cried because it was a gift.I cried because it was important. And I couldn’t cry for my three dogs, because they weren’t like that tome.Lola Mamang died on May 4. I chose to write this as my topic because we weren’t able to visit her thisyear. We drove but we weren’t able to reach it because the traffic made us stuck until 8pm. We hadschool the next day so we turned back and arrived home at 10pm. We left around 6-7. I rememberedagain when Lola Mamang kept visiting us, kept loving us. Then I remembered the dogs. I could cry for herbut not the dogs. That fact has kept me awake for some time. Did that make me a bad person? For thelongest time, my answer was yes. I was a bad person for not feeling bad about my dogs. I was a badperson for not taking care of them in the first place. To me, those dogs were just animals, I couldn’thumanize them.And I felt guilty. I felt sad that I couldn’t feel bad for the dogs yet feel miserable about myself feeling sad. Ijust couldn’t connect myself to them. But, I should not be tormenting myself about the past. It has beenyears. And I had to learn myself that I needed to let go. I had to accept my grief and guilt. To move on is tosit in a room with the problem and continue your life like normal. It’s hard, but it’s something you have toembrace. I did not feel anything for these dogs. And that’s okay. My environment did not allow me tointeract and connect with them. I could have done more. I had a fear for those dogs, maybe I could haveslowly introduced myself to them.It’s all “could” or “should”. Could, could, could. But I never did.And that's okay.I cannot cry for them, and that’s okay too. We cry in the first place to show a sense of sadness or longingto a person or thing. But that’s not the only way to show emotion or to be human. You can show emotionthrough respect, through love, through remembering. I could not feel empathy for these dogs, but that’sfine. The hardest part is acknowledging that I couldn’t empathise beyond feeling pity for their deaths. I wasnot there with them, nor have I gone through anything similar to what they have. Yet, I can still show themrespect. I can still remember. My dogs were shot, I couldn’t cry, and it’s okay to forgive or accept that.Because self-forgiveness isn’t about fixing things immediately.It’s about living with the consequences and growing from your mistakes.Aorta Literary Magazine 31MYDOGS WERE SHOTANDIDIDN’TCAREJOHN MAGSALINAbout the author: John Magsalin is an 18 year freshman studying in Ateneo de Manila. He the former head of KaTA's (Kamalayaan at Tng Atenista) Gazette divison, which produarticles about social issues. He currently resin Fairview.

MASTHEADAorta Literary Magazine 32Lauren is a college freshman in NJ, USA. Sheenjoys writing as well as reading. Some of herfavorite authors include Donna Tart and R. F.Kuang. As a hobby, Lauren likes to go to artexhibitions and explore NYC.Abigail is currently a high school sophomore inNew Jersey. She has a strong interest in truecrime, often spending her time listening topodcasts and researching cases that captureher interests. Abigail has won multiple awardsfor her artwork and enjoyed doodling in herfree time. Her hobbies include traveling,drawing, journaling, and listening to artists likegeorge.LaurenYou,Co-EditorAbigailAn, EditorClaire is a high school sophomore in NJ, USA. Asan avid writer, Claire enjoys writing poetry andpersonal memoirs. She is a national gold medalistfor poetry through Scholastic Art and Writing andhas been featured in multiple publications. Otherthan writing, Claire enjoys photography and digitaldesign. In her free time, she enjoys traveling andlistening to artists like Isiah Rashad and Dean.ClaireYou, Editor-in-Chief

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